Literary Gazette, 9th August 1823, Page 507
Thine, too, other gifts above,
Every sign and shape of love,
Its first smile, and its first sigh,
Its hope, its despondency,
Its joy, its sorrow, all belong
To thy so delicious song.
Fair Erato, vowed to thee,
If a lute like mine may be
Offered at thy myrtle shrine,
Lute and heart and song are thine.
Broken be my treasured lute,
Be its every number mute,
Ere a single chord should waken,
By thee or by Love forsaken.
Gentlest one, I bow to thee,
Rose-lipp'd queen of poesy!L.E.L.